Summer 2007 (15 page)

If I couldn’t have a milkshake, I was ready to kill for
an explanation. But since I didn’t see a way to get either, I went out looking
for gigs.

I got a little interest, too, even with my shift
requirements. It was good to know, after so long, that I could still lay down a
tune, and by the time I finished my third cold call I was feeling pretty good
about myself. The manager stood me a beer, and I sat down in a booth beside the
juke box to pretend to drink it and retie my shoes.

And found myself tidying the salt shakers while I
watched a dark-haired girl who was far too young to be in a bar. Any bar, and
the guy she was with wasn’t quite old enough to be her father. He didn’t look
like anybody’s father, anyway; in fact—

—in fact, he looked a lot like one of the media
ghosts I’d ditched in the MGM Grand. The shaggy yellow hair, at least, and his
profile when he turned just right. This one looked dazed, though, his eyes not
quite tracking as he watched his skinny, no-doubt-about-it-hired-for-the-evening
companion play with her French fries.
What kind of a stoner John buys a
hooker a meal and watches while she draws in the ketchup?

Maybe she was his kid sister, after all. Even if they
didn’t look a thing alike.

“She’s trouble, Ace,” Jesse whispered in my ear. But I
ignored him, or pretended to.

I didn’t like him to know how much of a comfort it was,
having him there.

She looked up at me and quirked an eyebrow, then, and I
saw the glow of city lights in her eyes. “Evening, King,” she said. Soprano, no
breath control.

“Name’s Tribute.” I abandoned my beer on the table when
I walked over. The blond man scooted away from me at her hand gesture, and
didn’t quite offer a grunt by way of acknowledgment. He was all twisted up
inside himself like macramé—any fool could tell—but when he tracked
me with a scarred sideways glance I could see the lights shimmering in
his
eyes, too.
Interesting.
They really didn’t look like they went together,
if you know what I mean.

“Funny sort of a name,” she said. “I’m Angel. This is
Stewart. He’s a local.”

“And you’re not?”

Her eyes sparkled when she dimpled at me. She reached
out and laid one hand on my arm. Her bitten fingernails were painted chipped,
glittering green. “I’m from Los Angeles. And I hear you’re looking for a job.”

“I might be.” I was trying to sound casual instead of
wary, and I wasn’t sure I succeeded. There were thirteen fries on her plate,
and seventy-two sesame seeds on the bun of her half-eaten burger.

I looked down and straightened the unused place
settings. The last thing I needed in my recently simplified life was to get
involved in some sort of a turf war between the genii of cities. My kind
generally tried to stay out of the way of their kind. Them, and the media
ghosts and race memories and legendary men and critters like the sasquatch and
the squonk. I worry about spending time with any creature who is essentially a
story made flesh. They change too much, too easily—and too many of them
aren’t even aware that a world outside their circumscribed reality even exists.

I ran into Dracula once. I’m hoping I never meet Buffy
the Vampire Slayer. She’d kick my ass. “It would depend on the job.”

“Bodyguard?” She smiled and reached out to take
Stewart’s hand when he curled himself back into the corner of the booth,
drawing his heels up onto the vinyl like a child. He tugged his hand free and
wrapped the arm around his knees, shivering. I couldn’t quite tell if the look
in his eyes was beseeching or simply flat blue madness, and I glanced back down
at the girl.

“That’s not really my kind of gig, baby—”

“King,” she interrupted, tossing her hair over her
shoulder. “Do you want to hustle in a dive like this for people who have no
idea what you really were? Who’ll think you’re a
bad
imitation because
they’ve stopped seeing how
bad
all the other imitators are?”

It was the wrong tack to take. Or maybe I was just tired
of her coy, self-conscious gestures. Girls these days have an edge on them I
don’t remember from befre; they were like cagebirds then, pampered doves, their
naivete the core of their charm.

Or maybe I’m talking about myself again.

“Take your time,” she said, before I could say no.
“Think about it. I’ll find you again and we’ll talk. Come on, Stewart.”

I threw a twenty on the table to cover their tab, and
stood up to let him follow her out.

#

The Russian and the Three Capitalists. Somewhere in Las
Vegas. 1964.

The Russian expected trouble. Which wasn’t unusual: he
always expected trouble. Although it was true that conditions for Americans who
weren’t white Anglo-Saxon Protestants weren’t quite as horrid as he’d been
raised to believe, back home, they were bad enough. And Vegas wasn’t called the
Mississippi of the West for nothing.

So he was surprised and pleased when they were seated
immediately, and not even tucked away in a corner near the kitchen doors.

“Man,” the scholar said as the food arrived, laying his
napkin across his lap. “Did we order enough?”

The American grinned as the athlete and the Russian
simultaneously reached for the fruit plate. “Have you ever seen my partner
eat?”

“No,” the scholar answered, hands deft as he sorted his
silverware. “Have you seen mine?” He jerked his head sideways, at the rapidly
diminishing pile on the tall man’s plate. “I have no idea where he puts it.”

The Russian, already chewing, kicked his partner lightly
under the table. The American’s mouth closed with an audible snap, and he
stuffed a bite of bread inside it to keep the words plugged up. “So,” the
American said, when he’d washed his mouthful down with steaming coffee, “can
somebody explain to me why we think it’s wise for all four of us to be sitting
in a public place when we’re on the hunt for a rogue agent?”

“Simple,” the athlete answered, without looking up from
his plate. “We’re bait. This Cobb salad is the best. And it’s huge. You should
try some.” He leaned back from his dish, raising his fork as if he expected his
tablemates to lunge for the salad like a pack of feral dogs.

“If we’re bait, who’s our backup?” The American leaned
forward, interested now. “And how did we wind up drafted?”

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Also,
the Department briefed us on New York.” A grin on the scholar’s face as he
lowered his voice—not to a whisper that might attract attention, but
rather to a murmur. “The backup is classified, but they’re from an agency that
has an interest in protecting MI-6’s reputation even if MI-6 won’t do it
itself.”

“A team the assassin won’t expect,” the athlete finished
for his partner, resuming his relationship with the Cobb salad. “Because he
thinks one of the partners is badly hurt.”

The Russian chuckled. “The English girl. It is good to
hear she’s on her feet again.”

“We heal fast.”

“So I’ve noticed. That doesn’t answer the question of
why we join you in serving as—
bait
.”

The scholar nudged his partner, who gave him a dirty
look from under a falling dark forelock. “You’re not going to fit into your
tennis whites if you keep eating like that.”

“Perhaps we can play, later,” the Russian said.

The athlete looked up, a predatory grin creasing his
face. “Five dollars a game?”

“On my salary?”

“My partner is cheap,” the American said, and the
Russian rolled his eyes.

“Who is it that is always borrowing money from whom?”

“Cheap, but well-spoken—”

The scholar coughed, twining his fingers together over
his plate. He had enormous hands, boxer’s hands, the skin dark on the backs and
pale across the palms. “You wind up helping because your faces are
recognizable. Your identities are public and you’re already targets. And it’s
not like you two have to maintain a cover. So it doesn’t destroy your
usefulness if you’re made.”

“Our controller put you on to us, didn’t he? We’re
supposed to be here on vacation; the home office takes no responsibility for
this mission.”

The scholar grinned around his buttered bread. “Our home
office does. At least State is staying out of this one—”

“They can have it, if they want it. But it’s not exactly
their cup of tea. They’re better with conspiracies.” The American turned his
fork in his fingers, contemplating the light reflecting from the tines. “I
don’t know how you two live undercover all the time.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. See the world, meet interesting
people—” The athlete spoke with his mouth full of salad.

“—and be captured and tortured by them,” the
Russian finished. “Are you going to eat that dinner roll?”

“No,” the American answered, and pushed him the bread
plate, then looked across the table at the scholar and shrugged as if to say,
what
are you going to do?
“I don’t suppose you know what the assassin is playing
at, do you?”

“Our English friend has a theory.” The athlete’s fork
described a trembling circle in the air as he washed his salad down with
sparkling water.

The Russian poured tea from the little pot on the table,
surprised at the quality. Most Americans seemed to think that adequate tea was
a matter of dunking a paper bag full of fannings into water that had been
allowed to over-cool. This was brewed properly, boiling water over loose
leaves. Earl Grey. He softened his voice, holding the cup to his lips to
conceal the outline of his words, and modulated his tone to hide any trace of
concern. “Will we meet the English team?”

“Not until the affair is over, if everything goes
according to plan.” The athlete forked through his salad, ferreting out
crumbles of bacon and egg. “With any luck, the assassin will think they’re
incapacitated in England.”

“Tell me the theory.”

The athlete offered them both a wry grin. The American
put his fork down and reached across the table for the saltshaker, idly leaning
it at an angle in a vain attempt to balance it. It wobbled and fell; he caught
it and tried again.

“You’re doing it wrong,” the athlete said, before he
could make a third attempt.

The American looked up. “Ah, excuse me?”

“You’re doing it wrong.” His capable hand brushed the
American’s square-fingered one aside; the Russian glanced up for a moment and
saw the wry, almost patronizing twist of the scholar’s lips. The Russian traded
a quick flash of a grin with the scholar, sure their partners were too engaged
in their ridiculous competition to notice.

The athlete lifted the salt shaker from the American’s
fingers and tilted it upside down, letting grains scatter on the tablecloth. He
pushed them into a pile with his fingertips and angled the base of the shaker
against it lightly and precisely. The Russian held his breath as the athlete
opened his fingers like the teeth of a crane and lifted his hand away.

The shaker never moved.

“Bravo,” the American said, softly, and the scholar
slapped the edge of the table and made the salt shaker clatter down on its
side.

“Oh,” he said, “the wonderfulness of you.”

The Russian hid his smile behind his palm until he got
it under control, set his teacup down, and leaned forward, elbows on the table
as he drew a licked finger through the tumbled grains. The hairs on his nape
shivered; they were being watched. “You American spies are all alike.”

“Pampered?”

“Pah.” The tea got cold quickly in these little china
cups. Glasses were better. “Americans know nothing of pampering—Smug, I
mean,” he said, interrupting himself.

“You were worried about the widow?” The athlete dusted
his hands together, lips pursing.

“The Englishman’s partner is an old friend. I was
concerned.” Ignoring his partner’s amused, sideways blink. “Share the theory,
if you would.”

The scholar’s expressive lips twitched. “We think it has
a bunch to do with your partner, in fact.” He darted a glance at the American,
who choked on his coffee. “Your partner, the widow’s partner, and my
partner—”

“Why would she and I be the targets, then?” The Russian
leaned forward, intrigued.

“The widow, you, and myself. Work with me, man.”

The Russian glanced at the American to see if perhaps he
understood. The American raised his shoulders and tipped his head in his
trademark exaggerated shrug.

“Because the assassin works alone.” The scholar’s tone
made it seem as if the answer was obvious.

The Russian pursed his lips slightly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t understand what that has to do with
anything. He works alone, so he thinks other agents must, as well?”

“Sure, if he’s going to consume them.”

“Con—” The American set his coffee cup down with a
rattle that betrayed the unsteadiness of his hand. “Like, ‘Two Bottles of
Relish’?”

“Munch munch. Yum yum.” The tennis player’s grin widened
cartoonishly. “Our partners are too different. But you and I—” an eloquent
gesture with his fork “—have a great deal in common. And in common with
the assassin.”